


Lady Heroes (and Chantry Bros)

by amarmeme



Series: Lady Heroes [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: And finding a cure for The Calling, Background Relationships, Beyond Thedas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Grey Wardens, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Idiots in Love, Let's get this party started, Minor Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Misunderstandings, Skyhold is the epicenter of love, The Calling, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, kickass women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Summary: Even the mightiest of heroes make mistakes once in a while. Just ask Marian Hawke, her cousin Solona or the new Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan. Despite being women with power and authority, they sometimes struggle to keep their personal lives in order while the world is threatened around them. Does it really need to be duty over desire every time?Can Hawke make it back to her Prince in one piece after volunteering for the fight once again? Will Solona find the cure to the calling in time to save herself and Ferelden's king? Will Evelyn figure out how in the Void to balance what she wants as a woman versus what the world needs from her as a leader?OR... The World is Going to End (Again) and Women Need to Save It





	1. Hawke in the 'Hold

Hawke couldn’t be sure whether she held the title for the worst luck in all of Thedas, or if the honor fell to her cousin Solona. There was no debating that the fortune of the remaining Amell family members left a lot to be desired, but standing on the battlements in Skyhold, winter wind whipping dark bangs across her eyes, Hawke was beginning to think she was the butt of some cosmic joke.

_Andraste’s tits Varric, it's cold up here. Where in the void are you?_

Wheeling around and kicking a crate with her boot, Hawke sent a silent curse to the Maker for bringing her here. Not that she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Varric, but things were _finally_ interesting in her personal life and she didn’t appreciate the nature of the cool down. She was supposed to be in Starkhaven right now, if not for the world falling apart yet again.

“Hey, you’ll waste a good bottle if you do that.” A familiar voice called out and Marian Hawke turned with a goofy grin plastered on her face.  

“Varric! You’re just as hairy and charming as I remember.” The dwarf sidled up to her and they hugged, holding on longer than their usual long-time reunion embraces. After stepping apart, Hawke grabbed the bottle in question from the upturned crate behind her. She uncorked it and took a long draw, enjoying the burn as the whisky -- always whisky with Varric -- gave her some much needed warmth. She cleared her throat  and offered the bottle to her best friend. “So, Corypheus, huh? Not that I don’t enjoy our reunions, Varric, but this has to be a worse twist than in one of your novels.”

Varric raised his hands in mock defense, then swiped the proffered liquor from her grip. “The readership doesn’t lie, Hawke. There’s nothing wrong with any of my plots.” His exaggerated swig was much longer than hers, and she rolled her eyes and snorted at the display.

“Where’s this Herald of yours? I’m assuming you wanted to meet in private because she’s involved, not because you plan on telling me you’ve held a deep dark secret about your true feelings for me all these years. Best not to admit Varric Tethras has a soft spot.” Hawke winked and he could only take another drink.

“Maker, Hawke, I’m just making sure we don’t have an audience. Too many lady heroes in one spot, we don’t want to draw a crowd.”

Hawk’s gut clenched at the innocuous remark. There would be exactly one lady hero missing from the gathering today. Someone Hawke hadn’t heard from in at least two years, and the very thought of it made her sick. Solona wasn’t just possibly saving herself and her King, but Bethany too. Hawke had initially been filled with so much relief when Solona wrote about her plan, but now that so much time had passed, all of those hopeful feelings had warped into guilt for even encouraging the journey. Was she still alive?

“Thedas to Hawke, come in Hawke.” Varric waved the bottle in front of her eyes. “I don’t like where you went there. You looked like Broody for a moment.”

She blinked and focused on the snow swirling between the parapets. There was something creepy about Skyhold. As if the place kept secrets, and one only had to listen carefully to hear whispers of the past. Right now all she could hear was the wind, and the barest clinking of metal from the courtyard. She was so used to Kirkwall and its demands, wrapped in its sticky, sickly fingers that anywhere else she felt off. Less. Unnecessary.

“You better get your Herald. Let’s get on with it then.”

“She’s the Inquisitor now. You didn’t see the crowd? The sword raising? Curly practically lost his voice, with all the cheering.  It will be a tale told for ages and you missed it.”

Hawke shrugged. “I’ve been in enough tales myself.” Varric gave her his best "I'm being nonchalant" look. “ I’ll be back in an hour.”

She stalked off, not in her best mood, and decided to make finding food her sole mission. Judging by the state of ruin that was Skyhold, Varric must have sent Hawke his imploring letter as soon as he’d escaped Haven, as soon as possible upon knowing Corypheus was impossibly alive. Hawke had just arrived, but the Inquisitor hadn’t brought her followers to the fortress that long before. Surely some kind of kitchen operation was set up already though, as the Inquisitor brought a lot of company.

Hawke stomped down the stairs and headed towards the tavern she’d spied from up on the wall. She smelled something strong, and meaty, and picked up the pace, making her thighs ache. The travel from Kirkwall to Highever had been well and good, she was used to ships by now due to a certain pirate, but once docked on dry Fereldan land, the horse riding began. The missive she received from Varric upon arrival had been urgent, and she had wasted no time trying to find Skyhold. But, Hawke was thoroughly a city woman now, and Kirkwallians didn’t ride horses to get around. The rushed pace of her journey was causing her to walk funny.

_At least I don’t have to impress anyone. Though I doubt a fully armored woman is going to raise any attention around here._

As if summoning her with her thoughts, the Seeker stepped out of the tavern and stopped to talk to a pretty dwarf woman near the door. Though she’d never met her before there was no doubt that this was the woman of Varric’s exaggerated descriptions. Hawke froze, not sure whether it was smarter to stay still or hide. She was no rogue, and thought she was more likely to trip in an effort to slink away unnoticed. So she stayed put, hoping whatever they had to talk about ended quickly and drove Cassandra away just as fast.

The conversation was quick, probably just a passing greeting. Instead of carrying off to the practice dummies that she’d been swinging at all day (and Hawke had seen her slaughtering them practically since dawn), the lady Seeker spun on a heel and walked directly towards her.

_Shitshitshit. Varric, you blighted nug humper._

There was no evading the woman now, she had clearly been found out. And so easily too. It wasn’t like Hawke was necessarily hiding in Kirkwall, she had been the Viscount for years after all. She just had a reliable enough network to make sure she was never in Hightown, or at least her office, when the Seeker came around. She hadn’t ever met the woman before, but she casted a long shadow. Or, Varric told extravagant lies to play up his interrogation. One of those she was sure of, but it could have been both.

“Champion.” It was said matter of factly, the woman’s stoic tone matching her gaze.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced?” Hawke said coyly.

Cassandra gave her a pinched look, narrowing her eyes even further. “You very well know who I am.” Hawke’s response was a sheepish grin. The Seeker continued with a hint of annoyance. “I am not here to berate, as you might think. That time has passed -- we face bigger problems now. I asked Varric to contact you before Haven, before Most Holy...” Her voice trailed off, and Cassandra shifted. “I thought the Inquisition could have benefitted from your leadership.”

“Given our track record, Seeker, I don’t know if I believe that.”

Cassandra let out a grunt of disgust. “All of this all may have been a mistake, but I do not doubt you capable, Champion.” Having said her peace, she began to turn away and thought better of it. “Do not think this means Varric has earned a free pass.”

“Of course not, Seeker.” Hawke couldn’t wait to hear about it afterwards.

The tavern, the Herald’s Rest, was brimming with people. Mages, templars, elves and dwarves alike. Even Qunari. Or, at least one shirtless, single-eyed Qunari with the largest horns Hawke had ever seen. She glanced at him while eating a very passable stew, and tried to not to jump to any sudden judgements. The last one she knew, well it had ended with him dead on the floor and Hawke nearly in the same state.

Hawke ignored the Qunari’s presence and dug into her food. She observed a surprising amount of cheer in the tavern. A city elf practically skipped up the stairs with a devious look in her eyes, a ragtag group of fighters played drinking games in the corner, though it was only midday. Some things never changed, no matter where you were in the world. She suddenly missed her own ragtag gang badly, wishing that Isabela was leaning over the counter trying to get a drink out of the sullen barman, Fenris drinking wine straight out of the bottle, playing with his large pile of chips, surpassed only by Isabela’s. Even Merrill would be there, looking dazed as usual, eyes as big as saucers listening to Varric’s nonsense.

There was someone she missed even more, but she wasn’t thinking of that. Not now. Better to get the matter with Corypheus underway and over with before you could say Inquisitior, Herald of Andraste. Thinking of the already fabled woman, Hawke took up her mug of ale and surveyed its contents. Finding it nearly empty, she ordered another. Still a few more minutes before Varric would be expecting her, what better way to spend it then in a tavern, reminiscing days past.

 

“Inquisitor, meet Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke made her way down the steps towards Varric and the Inquisitor, with care. She’d had a few more drinks, and was feeling more affected than she ought to. One of those drinks had come from the Qunari man, and it had burned like hell. His distant laugh from across the room as she sputtered at the first gulp told Hawke the price had been worth it.  

“Though I don’t use that title much anymore,” she said. “Call me Marian, or Hawke, as Varric usually does.”

“Hawke, the Inquisitor,” said Varric. “I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus. You and I did fight him after all.”

She was about to snort at Varric, but the Inquisitor looked quite earnest. She was taller than Hawke had imagined, at least for a rogue. She’d heard about the woman’s ability to dash about the battlefield, and hadn’t expected her to be so sturdy. Her light brown hair was held back from her face and tied in a sensible knot at her neck, and she studied Hawke with equal interest. Hawke was still wearing her armor, and the Inquisitor dressed in some sort of casual attire, but from first glance, the woman exuded confidence.

“And you can call me Evelyn. At least then someone will. It’s bad enough that Varric has given practically everyone, even the horses, nicknames by now and I’m still Inquisitor.”

Hawke smiled, she knew she’d end up liking this woman. “Aye, he does the same to me.” Hawke felt an uncontrollable blush fill her cheeks. She’d picked up one or two... foreign expressions over the years and always fell into them after a few drinks.

Varric stepped back, shaking his head and muttering something about ungrateful women, and headed for the bottle of whisky still sitting on the crates behind them. Hawke took a breath and leaned over the wall, hoping that the cool air would sober her a little.

Evelyn steered them back in the direction of the business at hand. "So, I'd be happy for any information on Corypheus." 

“Since you’ve already dropped half a mountain on the bastard, I’m sure anything I can tell you pales in comparison.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You did save a city from a horde of rampaging Qunari,” Evelyn said with a bit of mirth.

“I don’t see how that really applies. Or is there a horde of rampaging Qunari I don’t know about?”

“There’s a Qunari. He almost qualifies as a horde all by himself. Fortunately, he’s on our side.”

“Is that so? I could have sworn differently.” Hawke leaned over even further, letting out a groan.

Evelyn laughed and joined her at the wall. “You didn’t even have to kill a dragon to earn that drink.”

“Well, I’ve killed one before.” Hawke lifted her head too quickly, and grimaced. “Do you think he knew?”

“The Iron Bull? Yes, I’d say he knows a lot more about you than what Varric has been willing to share. He’s Ben Hassarath.” She put her hand on Hawke’s arm. “It’s a good thing, despite how much you’ll want to curse him later. And believe me, you will.”

“It’s going to get worse?”

Despite how much the world was spinning about, she and Evelyn talked for some time. The woman had a lot of questions, and was taking the task seriously. Everything was covered, from how they thought they’d defeated Corypheus, to the Wardens and red lyrium, even Hawke’s opinion on Anders. Hawke thought her actions in that area made it plain how she had felt about the man. Then, she shared her possible lead in Stroud, and Evelyn was eager to meet him. Overall, she felt satisfied in that the Inquisitor was someone who didn’t just wear the title, but owned it. Hawke could tell Evelyn was as vested in her cause as Hawke had been in her own years before. And then the Inquisitor asked a personal question.

“I heard you have family and friends in Kirkwall. Where are they now?”

Hawke crossed her arms and shifted uncomfortably. There were exactly two people left in the world for whom she didn’t want to think about at the moment. It didn’t hurt to answer honestly, but by putting the task first, she was able to keep any sad, self-indulging thoughts at bay. Mostly.

“When the wardens began acting strangely, I had my friend Aveline take my sister out of the Free Marches.” _Oh, Bethany._ “Sebastian is the Chantry advisor in Starkhaven. The throne is still in contention there. Without him, it would be open war among the noble families. He’d had dropped everything to come with me, but he’d have hated himself for doing it.” _And potentially wasted all he’s done over the years to eventually take that throne, and then I’d have hated myself._

“Hawke, I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I understand this is probably not how you’d ideally be spending your time, but I appreciate your candidness.”

Hawke nodded, and pulled herself out of her momentary funk. Even if she had problems, she had no idea what Evelyn was facing. At least she didn’t have magic coming out of her own hand.

“Besides,” said Evelyn. “If I have any more questions about you, I can always just ask Varric. Or the Iron Bull, it seems.”

At some point Varric had disappeared. He was probably trying to avoid the Seeker’s attention. Though it was only time before she found him at Skyhold, it was far less effective for avoiding authority than Kirkwall.

“I think at this point it would be wise for me to find my quarters, to you know, settle in. Not pass out from the effects of cursed Qunari booze.” Hawke gave Evelyn a sheepish grin. “Just don’t tell anyone else I was wasted before dinner.”

“Somehow I think that’ll get out whether you want it to or not. I’ve learned that news, of any kind, travels fast in Skyhold. It’s like the place is whispering secrets or something.”

If Hawke hadn’t already been drunk, she’d have bought the woman a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone will mess up, there will be angst, there will be misunderstandings, there will be smut! Eventually.
> 
> This all came about from thinking about how in the Void Hawke got to Skyhold so damn quick. Which turned into a chapter about Hawke's immediate perceptions of the Inquisitor and the reasoning for her clipped answers. And then the drama simmering quietly in the background of The Shelved Works of Varric Tethras between Evelyn and Cullen needed a home. Then I felt bad for Amell and how she's off finding the cure to the calling all alone.
> 
> I love those Chantry men, but I love their women just as equally!


	2. Hawke Can't Even (Write a Damn Letter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's left to her own devices and for some reason can't send a certain someone a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapter titles will all say whose chapter it is. Since at times all of our ladies are in different corners of the world.

The sun had gone down hours ago and yet Hawke couldn’t find sleep. She was still feeling blurry from the Qunari drink, and her entire body refused to settle. One moment she would find herself drifting, and her leg would twitch, or her stomach would cause a momentary revolt. Part of her wondered if the poison was just finally kicking in.

Her room was one of the few with an outside-facing door. Situated in the inner garden near Varric, Hawke was granted relative quiet. Her own space was small, and practically empty, containing only a bed, an armor stand and a large trunk. Her greatsword was within reach beneath the bed out of habit. It had been many years since she actually felt it necessary. As the Viscount, she had as much faith in Aveline and her guard as Sebastian in his Maker.

She sighed and pressed the heels of her hands into tired eyes. Taking a deep breath, she tried to clear her head, but her thoughts kept circling. She should have been across the world by now, visiting another one of her very favorite people. But when Varric writes and pleads for you to come, you join him. Despite how much shit she gave him, the man had a way with words. Although, only one word was really necessary to get her moving. Corypheus.

Hawke was under no illusion that she was the answer to Thedas’ problems, she could barely keep Kirkwall from dissolving into the sea, but it hurt her pride a bit knowing someone else was dealing with her trash.  

Hawke’s stomach did a revolting flip, and she leaned on her side to keep from expelling anything on her bed. Nothing came up, thank the Maker, but her mouth tasted terrible. She swung her legs to the floor, and dragged herself up to the door. The crisp mountain air seeped from the crack by her toes, and Hawke shivered miserably. It was as if she’d never been to Ferelden before, though this was worse than winter in Lothering. Far worse. She braced herself and swung the door open, the freezing air slapping her across the face. Maybe the outside-facing door wasn’t that great of a benefit. With a deep groan, she sprinted across the courtyard to a door that lead her to the great hall.

The place was still in ruins, the hall not yet cleared of the caved-in pieces of the roof, broken beams and other smashed furniture. It reminded Hawke of the Amell mansion when she’d first reclaimed it, and she smiled a little. There were a lot of good memories, as well as some sad ones, in that mansion. She wasn't sure where to head next, but assumed the kitchens were below. It wouldn't suit to bring supplies upstairs everyday if avoidable.

The first entry she tried was across the way, near an unused fireplace. It opened without a loud squeak, and Hawke flinched. There was a long, bald elf in the round room, lounging across a couch, deep in sleep. What Hawke would have given to be able to rest that way right now. She backed up carefully, wincing again when the door whined in protest when she closed it. She tried a few other doors, looking for any that went down instead of up. She found the undercroft, more stairs upwards and finally an office that was looking rather stately despite its surroundings. A wingback chair was placed behind a grand desk covered in neatly stacked piles of papers. She almost missed the other set of doors on her way back through, which led her down.

She browsed around, tiptoeing into the other rooms down in the dark. There was a library covered in spider webs, and more importantly, a wine cellar starting to fill up with bottles of notable variety. She made a mental note to come back later when her head wasn't about to explode and her stomach would appreciate the added contents. As it was, water was the only drink she cared to have.

She finally stumbled into the kitchen and found a pitcher of water. Foregoing the efforts of finding a glass, Hawke drank straight from the rim, tepid water spilling down her shirt front. She gulped until she was set to burst. Setting the pitcher on the large wooden table, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Scanning the room, she found a basket of apples and swiped a few for later. Hopefully no one would miss it. Despite being a guest of the Inquisitor, and she was granted a room so she _was_ a guest, Hawke felt like an intruder. Something she'd felt from time to time since fleeing Lothering all those years ago. Varric wouldn't believe it, but Kirkwall wasn't her home, or at least not what she'd envisioned for herself. All that she'd done there was necessary to keep people safe. But that didn't mean she was meant to stay forever.

Hawke found her way back up to the courtyard door easy enough, and paused to prepare herself for the race back across the courtyard. _It's not that cold, you wimp._ Emboldened, Hawke opened the door and yelped as icy wind cut across her face and hands, now full of apples. She kept to the side of the building, but the overhang did little to keep the wind out. Chilled, she slipped into a room quickly to take a second before darting the rest of the way. Her eyes adjusted to the space and she could make out a statue before her. Interested, she moved forward, squirting at the figure. It was Andraste.

_Figures I'd find you here._

Hawke wasn't that faithful, which was ironic considering the companion she'd chosen, but she wasn't altogether dismissive of the Maker and his bride. She was a much bigger fan of his bride though, truth be told. She didn't think Andraste would have had such a stick up her rear end about chastity as her godly beloved did. Sighing, Hawke placed an apple at the stone woman's feet. She needed all the help she could get, and maybe even a measly offering of pilfered fruit would be taken kindly.  

“Let me have the courage to do what needs to be done,” she said aloud. And then quickly amended. “And see me through this one. I know my luck is due to run out, but I'd really like to live through one more world-threatening catastrophe. At least, he deserves it from you if I don't.”

Hawke swallowed a lump in her throat and then broke out of the small chantry and into the winter wind to try and chase some sleep. It would be easier to only think about the task at hand. Easier. Easier. Easier. She told herself that over and over like a litany, until she half believed she could put Sebastian out of her mind.

 

Varric was leaving with the Inquisitor for a few days and Hawke wanted to roll her eyes so hard. Of course he was _necessary_ , he wasn't just trying to avoid the Seeker or anything. As much as he griped about being left behind on missions of mayhem in Kirkwall -- you just don't always need more than one arrow man -- she knew he loved catching up on his writing and card playing from time to time. So with great resignation, she kept her tongue quiet in front of Evelyn, as to not make Varric sound anything less than committed to the cause.

“Dorian and Blackwall will be joining us too, there's a few more things I'd like to take care of before heading to Crestwood,” the Inquisitor said, toying with the handle of one of her daggers. Varric and Evelyn had dragged a sturdy table in front of the oddly placed fireplace, and now the Inquisitor leaned against it in her leather armor. She handled the weapon deftly, now flipping it about in her hand, and Hawke wondered where the noble-born woman learned to fight with daggers.

“I hope you don’t mind the wait, Champion.” Evelyn looked at her, eyebrows raised and looking for a response.

“Just Marian,” Hawke replied dryly. Maker’s balls, would anyone call her by her name?

“You see, waiting isn’t exactly Hawke’s strong suit,” Varric butted in from the other side of the table. Hawke hastened to reply, but thought better of proving his point further. “Twenty royals she’s itching to pen a few letters now that she’s arrived and finally able to keep her head up.”

“That was hardly my doing, Varric,” Hawke spat out. She had to defend her honor. If she’d been looking to get drunk that would have been one thing, but Marian Hawke could hold her liquor. At least, normal liquor.

“Whoa there, Champion. Wouldn’t want to the Inquisitor to think you have an attitude.” Hawke flashed him an uncouth gesture. “All of my tireless work honing your reputation, and you bring it crashing down in less than a day.”

Evelyn sheathed her dagger, and pushed off the table. “You two are ridiculous. I’ll be ready to leave in ten minutes, Varric. And don’t think I’m unaware of you’re trying to avoid Cassandra’s wrath.” She raised her eyebrows before peeling off in the direction of the training yard with an amount of haste that Hawke couldn't rightly dismiss as just efficiency.

Looking back at a glum Varric, Hawke chortled into her sleeve and gave him a withering glance. “The Seeker seemed to think I was practically a gift from the maker himself. Your extravagant lies have finally paid off in my favor.” She patted his shoulder. “Too bad no one’s lying for you. Though I could be persuaded if you'd do some letter writing for me...”

“Well, shit Hawke, when you put it that way.” Varric thrusted a stack of papers, a pen and an inkwell into Hawke's arms. She fidgeted and frowned, shifting the parts between hands.

“it really would be so much easier if you just handled all my correspondences for me, you know. Fenris, believe it or not, didn't have a single complaint. He's a true friend.”

“A true friend wouldn't have let you pull that shit. Hawke, sit here and write Choir Boy a message. And before I get back.”

“So you're suddenly a fan now?”

Varric looked away. “I wouldn't go that far.” He looked back at her, with a furrowed brow. “But having Broody send it? That's just not right.”

Hawke's shoulders sagged and she placed the items back on the table. “I just-- it's easier when--”

“Yes I know. But it's not supposed to be easier. Love hurts and makes you feel like puking out your guts half the time.”

“Hmmm, you really need to see someone about Bianca if that's the reaction you're having.”  

Hawke knew the truth about the _real_ Bianca, though the truth with Varric could be subjective sometimes. She wasn't a fan, though it was based on pure speculation having never met the notorious smith before. Varric was a wonderful fibber, but after years of companionship and cards with him, his tells were obvious. His annoyed, but cagey expression hinted at something else though. Was there a new development here?

“Varric? Is someone else making your stomach flutter?”

“We’re talking about your problems, not mine.”

“No, _you_ were talking about my problems. I'm eager to skirt past them.”

“Just write your damn letter, Hawke. Even that piece of bland toast deserves more than second-hand regards.”

She went to joke, but Varric shook his head with a grave look of disapproval. He walked away from her, wringing his hands and looking cautiously outside before verifying there was no Seeker to be found.

Hawke sank into the chair behind the table. She placed a blank sheet before her, gripped a quill and opened the container of ink. She stared at the paper, twisted the quill aimlessly. Reminding herself of Varric’s disappointed look, Hawke forced herself to dip into the ink and write Sebastian’s name across the top of the waiting page. As if the stroke of his name could cause serious damage, a piece of the armor she wore inside dislodged, allowing a sliver of emotion through. Hawke dipped her head, her stomach queasy just as Varric said it would be.

Andraste preserve her, how she wanted him, needed him. It'd been almost a year since she'd been with him, touched him, felt him surge inside her. Heard his voice, husky with desire or shining with pride for her. Sebastian was everything she needed, but never admitted to anyone. He encouraged her, believed in her in a way that felt real and honest. Sure, everyone _believed_ in the Champion. Sebastian had the ability to see Marian for who she was inside though-- a woman who blustered her way through life with lot of luck and charm -- but turned those things she felt insecure about into positive attributes. Whenever he looked at her she felt holy, invincible in his gaze. He gave her strength and love and devotion and when she was deprived of it, she was absolutely terrified, realizing just how deep she was in. Hawke had never loved like this before, and without Sebastian there to light her sometimes dark thoughts, she worried that it was too much. Was she strong still without him? Was it wrong to depend on someone so much?

“Hawke? Are you--- is everything alright?”

She looked up, wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye. Cullen stood before her, awkwardly. Some things never change.

What had changed however, was his appearance. He seemed fuller, healthier as Commander of the Inquisition rather than Knight Commander. “Cullen!” she stood up, crumpling the pathetic attempt of a letter and tossing it backwards into the fire. “You look _good.”_ She grinned wickedly, studying the man with an appreciative eye. He wore a mantle of fur and slicked his hair back now in a way that reminded her so much of Sebastian. “It seems the mountain air has done you well indeed.”

“Hawke,” he warned.

“Oh you,” she walked around the table and joined him at his side, throwing an arm about his fur shoulders. “You know you missed me.”

“It has been much quieter without you.”

“Oh, I don't know. Evelyn seems like she could be very loud in her own right.” Cullen blushed and it confirmed her suspicion from earlier. It seemed the commander and the Inquisitor harboured some sort of flame for one another. _That_ was an intriguing distraction that Hawke could not pass up. “So, fill me in. What's been happening here? Anything scandalous of note?”

Cullen sighed, shook his head and removed her arm. “And here I thought I'd get some paperwork done at last.”

She scoffed. “Cullen, not long ago I was your Viscount. I can skim through paperwork with the best of ‘em. And then after we’ll have a few drinks at that tavern of yours and you'll spill.”

“There will be no living with you.”

He acquiesced with an aggrieved nod of the head, and Hawke followed him to his office. Dealing with other people's problems was her specialty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Hawke are friends. I repeat, Cullen and Hawke are friends and you can't tell me otherwise. She might chafe, but she was Viscount while he was in command of the Templars. They had to see each other quite a bit.


	3. Sol in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solona Amell is off looking for a cure to the calling beyond the borders of Thedas.

She was running out of cheese. Sol leaned against the roots of an ancient, barren tree to study the contents of her pack. Skeletal branches stretched heavenwards, stark white against the dark sky. For what reasons she was drawn to the spot -- a blight among a verdant forest of green -- Sol did not care to meditate on. The worn, brown leather pack in her lap was no easier to contemplate. Its contents were meager: One block of Ferelden aged cheddar, three strips of jerky, six pieces of hardtack, one handful of nuts. 

She’d picked up this last vestige of comfort weeks ago, collecting the cheese and supplies with more than a modicum of relief. The outpost was near the coastal settlement of Laysh on the Volca Sea; the last settlement in Thedas. An old Anders man with intricate markings on his cheeks granted her the parcel, not bothering to hide his apathy. He couldn’t understand what a wonder it was thought, to weigh in your hands a gift that was at once a beacon of hope and a sign of hardships to come. Sol tore through the wrapping, eager to count her blessings in units of goods and to see what news Alistair had to share. 

Disappointment soon surged past any feeling of relief. She dug further, deeper into the container. There wasn’t a message this time. The last note had been moderate and tame for Alistair, containing phrases that lacked a certain amount of comfort in their repetition. Things you might say because you are expected to, platitudes for when a loved one journeys far away. Giving up, she’d dumped the supplies into her pack and tipped the man at the post with more generosity than was probably warranted.

Now, stretched beneath a dead tree in the middle of a living, throbbing forest, Sol sighed and ate a piece of jerky. It tasted bland, and whether it was the butcher’s fault or her own melancholy, the warden could not be sure. Rustling bushes at her back signaled either the return of Dóchas or a creature hoping to benefit by her quiet, solemn presence. Sol laid a hand on her staff, wrapping her fingers around the smooth grip. The warrior in her that would never completely disappear itched for a blade, sought out Spellweaver across her back. She’d long since set aside her Arcane studies though, having no desire to continue the fight. Carrying a staff again was even an adjustment after the complete domestication of the Ferelden court. Really, she’d never expected these great changes in her life, peaks and falls liking riotous ocean waves. Her life was supposed to be a monotonous one in the Ferelden Circle. That was before everything spiraled out of her control. With a nervous belly full of flavorless jerky and hand on her weapon, Sol was adrift somewhere in the lull between two looming crests. 

The sound of Dóchas’ heavy breathing became apparent and Sol relaxed her grip. A great hot tongue covered her face in slobber and with no certain grace, the warden laughed despite their situation.

“ _ Ach _ , Dó,” she smiled. The mabari bowed and chuffed through her nose, a mostly silent greeting. “You know how to cheer me. What would I do without you?” Dóchas snuggled into the warden’s side, resting her large head on a lap. Sol had been so hesitant about another Mabari at first, but now, with the dog’s steady heartbeat against her leg, she had to admit Alistair was right to gift her a companion. 

The thought of him put a sigh back in her chest and though it was easy to grouse, Sol swallowed it down. She stroked Dóchas’ side instead and nestled against the roots. “You’ll never be upset at me though,” she whispered. Dóchas whined in agreement, and Sol gathered her magic in order to cast a few paralysis glyphs on the ground before them. She could worry about her pack and fret about her king in the morning. 

 

The supplies ran out a few days after that night spent under the skeleton tree. Dóchas became invaluable to her then. The pair pushed through the great greenery, twisting vines and flush undergrowth keeping Sol from making any significant progress. She could scarcely see her own feet beneath her. Tracking small creatures for supper would have been impossible were it not for the Mabari’s keen nose. Dóchas caught rabbits and fennecs, even brought down a deer once. That had been a great disappointment in the end, realizing there was no way for Sol to carry it all. She used a magic to cook what could be reasonably eaten, too worried to light an actual fire. The flames leapt from her fingertips without much concentration. It was easy as her first trick of magic, an unfortunate incident in Kirkwall’s Hightown Market involving a spark and a table of silken fabrics too tempting to not touch.

The days were much easier than nights, as if her spirit was tied to the sun, its rise and set markers of her mood. In daylight she trudged forward, ever towards her goal of curing the Calling, of freeing herself and Alistair. In darkness she felt the despair, the reality that their fate beckoned closer with each passing day and the lead she followed was little more than speculation. When she’d laid out the task before Alistair, he’d reacted with such canny enthusiasm that Sol felt empowered, eager even. It was to be a mission of scholarly pursuit, perhaps a trip or two to Weisshaupt was needed. Little did they know it would require such separation, almost two years in total.

A beam of sunlight through the canopy caught her eye, effectively scattering her thoughts. Sol followed the steady stream of light to where it landed on the forest floor. She couldn't say why it moved her feet so, but Sol didn't second guess intuition. Shoving through a thicket ripe with elderberries, the dark purple fruit leaving stains on her breeches, the light led her to a small clearing. Dóchas lept into the area, tongue lolling with canine happiness. Her grey and white splotched coat was streaked with elderberry juice as well. Without hesitation, the dog flopped to a patch of grass in the sun’s path and rolled on her back. Behind the Mabari stood a small altar that Sol had missed on first glance. The stone base was Obsidian, a gleaming black that beckoned the warden closer. 

Upon approach, the altar was no higher than her knee, and free of decoration. A simple ocher figurine rested on a little dais. The statue was the size of her forearm, an intricate carving of a woman with arms stretched to the sky. Sol smoothed a hand over the base's black surface, absorbing some of the warmth the stone borrowed from the sunlight. Something was carved there, an unintelligible message. Without thinking, she traced the runes with a fingertip. A sharp  _ chink  _ rang out from the stone and bounced off the surrounding trees. Sol dipped her head in annoyance with herself. After the Blight and travelling all over Ferelden, she should have known better than to touch mysterious objects. 

A puff of smoke later, an arcane horror appeared, this one long-limbed and rather grotesque. As a mage, arcane horrors always repulsed Sol. Dying was one thing, but knowing that a pride demon could do this to her body brought up bile in the back of her throat. She always wondered with a bit of sadness who the mage had once been. Were they an apostate? Did someone still mourn for them?

There was no time to ponder though. Sol backed up, readying her stance, staff in hand. The mabari leaped up as well, snarling and snapping beside her master. The best way to dispatch a horror was with fire, and Sol’s plans had been itching to cast something with a greater return than roasting her supper. 

With a rush of power that felt quite incredible, a wall of fire burst up between her and the demon. Flame licked up its robes, and the horror transported to Sol’s back.  Dóchas wasted no time leaping to defend her master, taking a hit of spiraling, green spirit energy. The mabari whimpered, but didn’t back down. Sol launched fireballs from her staff with rapid speed. Memory told her that horrors weren’t terrible to battle on one's own as long as you were quick. Sol spun and slammed her staff’s hilt to the ground and a powerful glyph erupted beneath the horror’s floating form. It shrieked and tried to teleport away, but the spell was effective. It was weakened, twisting and shaking its terrible head. Dóchas snapped and caught a foot, tugging with all her great strength to bring the foe to her level. The demon raised its arms to cast again and Sol threw a barrier over her dog, blocking the barrage of spirit energy. With a final burst of flame through the staff, the horror disintegrated. Dóchas shook her head as the foot in her mouth disappeared.  

Sol rested on her staff, panting. Dóchas seemed fine, albeit shocked about the missing limb. She searched the pile of ashen remains on the ground with her nose. 

“Get out of there, Dó!” 

Sol laughed and the mabari came to her master’s side. Stroking the smooth fur between Dóchas’ eyes, Sol craned her head back to study the sky. A slow cloud had passed overhead during their skirmish and now the clearing was overcast. It was suddenly very odd that a bit of sun had brought her here. If that cloud had been a bit faster, perhaps she’d of missed the altar and the demon altogether.

After a few moments, her breathing was even. It was time to move or make a decision of what to do next. Trudging through the forest seemed to do her no favors on this quest so far, but what other choice was there? Sol pushed a lock of lank blond hair behind an ear, reminding her with a tinge of disgust how long it had been since she’d bathed. 

With a cooing voice, she spoke to Dóchas. “I’ve gotten so soft. Haven’t I?” She returned to the altar to pick up her pack. 

“You know Dó, I used to traipse all over Ferelden, with a dog just like you.” Dóchas barked happily in reply. “And it could have been weeks without a proper bath, but it was all so... exciting. And I’d been falling in love, which meant even though we all smelled like druffalo droppings I didn’t notice. Oh, and Alistair ...” She giggled at the thought of how naive and earnest he’d once been. “He was far too lovestruck to say anything but sweet-- ”

Turning to face her dog, Sol discovered they were no longer alone. She dropped a barrier over her and Dóchas in light of the man standing over the remains of the Arcane Horror. The whorls on his brown skin distinguished him as an Ander. His long, gleaming dark hair was tied back, and his leather armor looked newer than her own. Sol couldn’t help but stare -- it was the first human she’d seen in weeks.  They stood facing one another long enough for her barrier to wear off.  If he meant her harm, he didn’t seem to be concerned about making it quick. Sol recast her barrier while Dóchas growled. The war hound wouldn’t pounce until Sol attacked first or gave the right command. Considering the relative calm, the warden decided on diplomacy as her first course of action.

“Hello,” she offered in Anders. The man’s eyebrow raised, just slightly. “It is a nice place to rest. I’m done with it if you’d like it back.” 

He studied her face and focused on her eyes for a minute. Sol could see the workings of something in his mind. “You’re a warden,” he replied at long last. 

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, he was clearly from the Anderfels and had seen his share of wardens, but being called out so easily without a stitch of regalia in the middle of a strange land was unexpected. She wondered what distinguished her as such.

“I . . . am.” Sol shifted uneasily.

“You’re hearing it. That’s why you crossed the mountains.”

The barrier wore off with a sudden burst of light and a loud  _ pop!  _ She was too shocked to put it back. Knowing she was a warden was one thing, but how in Thedas had he known about the Calling? Only wardens were privy to such details. Even now, with her heart thrumming in her ears, a macabre song still whispered, asking her to leave now and find the deep, dark roads. Sol had been able to ignore it, or at least live with it, but now it came rushing unbidden to the fore of her mind. Suddenly her head ached and her temples pulsed. 

“Take a deep breath,” he said. “I found it helped me.” 

Sol narrowed her eyes, but breathed in and out slowly. The song did not recede, but it did help with the aches. It seemed talking about the Calling was a good way to bring it to focus. After her head felt less explosive, the thousands of questions returned. 

“Wait,” she cried. “What do you mean  _ helped?  _ Were you a warden?”

“No.”

“Then how? How could you possibly know?”

The man smirked slightly. “Are you not searching for a cure to the song?”

Sol nodded dumbly, her staff almost sliding out of her slick hands. Was the world spinning or was she getting faint? Was this really happening? She took another steadying inhale and focused on the stranger. 

“Show me,” she demanded. 

The man simply turned and stalked off into the brush. Sol snapped out of her disbelief and jogged after him, Dóchas pushing through the undergrowth and wiggling her short stump of a tail with an excitement the warden was not yet allowing herself to feel. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wished we heard more from the Warden in DAI. I certainly had ideas about what Sol was up to while Alistair was all alone and am pretty excited for her part of the story to play out.


End file.
